


Fussing

by TurtleTotem



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Post-Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Like Damen, I like the idea of Laurent fussing over him while he's injured, so I decided to give them a little time together. ;)





	

Damen grumbled under his breath as Paschal poked and prodded his body. His knife wound was nearly a week old now, and Damen had had about enough of being treated like he was at deaths’ door. At least when it came to Paschal, and Jord, and Pallas, and—everyone who was not Laurent, essentially. Laurent he would permit to continue fussing over him with goodwill.

“The wound’s healing nicely enough,” Paschal said. “All it needs is time, and rest.”

Damen groaned.

“Is he fit for exertion yet?” Laurent asked.

Paschal frowned. “Certainly not. He must stay in bed.”

“Yes, but—what of exertion _in_ bed?”

Paschal blinked.

“Laurent!” Damen hissed, hoping he was not blushing like a schoolboy, but Laurent did not even look at him.

Paschal recovered quickly from his moment of pause. “He should lie as still as possible,” he said casually. “On his back, or perhaps his right side. Take great care not to provoke bleeding or tear the stitches.”

“Of course,” Laurent said sweetly.

Paschal took his leave. Damen covered his face with one arm.

Laurent stepped closer to him with a low chuckle. “You Akielons are such odd creatures. So embarrassed, as if you have not been as hungry for me as I have been for you.”

“Have you?” Damen peeked out from under the arm. He had fancied as much, judging from the way Laurent’s eyes and hands would linger on him at every opportunity, but to hear him say it outright was both a comfort and a surprise.

In answer, Laurent pulled Damen’s arm away from his face and bent to kiss him, slow and gentle and… possibly shy. Not so very long ago, Damen would never have thought to apply that word to Laurent. Now he find it not only suitable but endearing. He yielded completely to the kiss, brushing one hand through yellow hair as it fell, tickling, around his face.

For a moment he intended to speak, but all thought of what he was going to say left his mind when Laurent climbed carefully onto the bed with him and, still kissing him, slid one hand down his chest and belly and… further. Instinctively, Damen gasped and tried to arch into the touch.

Laurent pushed him back down. “Did you not hear Paschal? You must lie as still as possible.”

“Laurent—”

“Perhaps this will help.” He swung one leg over Damen’s torso, straddling him safely above the stab wound, and leaned down to pin Damen’s wrists to the bed above his head.

“It might,” Damen admitted breathlessly.

For a few minutes more, Laurent amused himself by keeping both Damen’s wrists gathered in one hand overhead, while his other hand returned to its previous explorations. Damen swore under his breath in a steady stream, trying not to move.

He made an indignant noise when Laurent abruptly let go with both hands, but swallowed his dismay—Laurent was pulling his shirt off, not bothering with laces, some of which snapped audibly as the white fabric slid up and over his head.

Laurent had gone back to a Veretian style of dress as soon as it was physically possible; Damen was pretty sure the torn, dirty chiton had ended up in the fire, a shame but one he couldn’t begrudge after what Laurent had endured while wearing it. This morning, though, he hadn’t yet encased himself in all the usual layers. He wore only the white shirt, tight buckskin breeches, and riding boots. They could subtract the shirt from that tally now, soft fair skin almost glowing in the morning light.

Damen thought his heart might stop as he looked up at Laurent, smiling and tousle-haired as he pulled off the bare approximation of clothing covering Damen’s lower half and tossed it carelessly across the room.

Prince Damianos of a year ago, he thought, would have been utterly confused by his present life. Damen the slave of just a few months past would have been horrified at the idea of ending up in bed with Laurent of Vere. He was neither of those men, and glad of it.

“Laurent,” he whispered, raising a hand as far as he could, and Laurent caught the reaching hand and leaned his face into it, pressed a kiss to his wrist.

Then Laurent released him, needing both hands to unlace his breeches and push them down his thighs. And Damen’s heart hadn’t stopped after all, because it was thundering in his ears like horses across a battlefield.

Laurent’s smile was absolutely wicked as he leaned forward to press a stoppered bottle of oil into Damen’s hand and whisper, “Attend me.”

*

The next time Damen had a coherent thought, his entire body was still limp and tingling, chest heaving, and Laurent had tumbled—gracefully, because he was Laurent—onto the bed beside him. With a heroic effort, Damen turned onto his side to face him.

“Flat on your _back,”_ Laurent complained.

“Paschal said my right side was acceptable.” It twinged more than a little, but Damen wasn’t about to admit that. And it was worth it, more than worth it, to lay like this, facing each other. Still dopey and graceless with pleasure, he swept the hair from Laurent’s face and brushed his lips over cheekbone, jaw, eyebrow, mouth…

Laurent didn’t usually permit this sort of thing, at least not immediately—his first move was always toward whatever cloths and water were handy, to clean up. Abruptly, Damen realized Laurent had made no mess that needed cleaning, that in fact Laurent was still hard.

Laurent hissed a little when Damen’s hand closed over the evidence of that, not a flinch but not a welcoming moan either.

“That… that was for you,” Laurent said, one hand resting on Damen’s wrist as if to hold him back.

“Yes. And this is for you,” Damen said, caressing just a little, as much as he could without fighting Laurent’s grip.

“It wasn’t—I didn’t intend—It doesn’t have to be an exchange.” The stammering, Damen thought, was a very good sign, as was the way Laurent’s eyes had slid half-closed.

“Call it a second gift, then, to let me. Please. Let me.”

Laurent swallowed, closed his eyes, and released Damen’s wrist, stripping off his boots and breeches with jerky efficiency before returning to his previous position.

Damen didn’t let himself bowl Laurent over, cover him in rough happy caresses as was his instinct. This was going to take a different approach entirely. Slow. Gentle. He wrapped one arm around Laurent’s shoulders, pulling him closer and kissing his throat, chest, shoulder, while his other hand moved slowly, gently, softly… There was enough oil left on his hand from their previous exertions to make it easier, and slowly, the trembling tension in Laurent’s body began to, if not lessen, at least shift, into something deeper and hungrier, his hips making a few half-conscious motions toward Damen’s hand.

It was better, Damen thought, that he himself had finished already; he had the time, the focus, to devote to this crucially important task without being distracted by his own desires. He would have to remember that, for next time.

Laurent was making an effort for him, that was clear—so determined to relax, in fact, that it became a tension in itself. That was frustrating to see, but taking Laurent to task about it would certainly be counterproductive, not to mention unfair, so Damen just kept up what he was doing.

And slowly, slowly, it worked, Laurent breathing quicker and deeper, the tiny frown of concentration smoothing out of his brow. His hands, which he had been holding flat against Damen’s chest, spasmed and slid into a new grip, fingers splayed across Damen’s neck and the side of his face. A shiver passed over his skin, and there, _there_ it went, marked only by a single short, breathless sound and the way his spine arched under Damen’s hand, muscles locked and trembling.

With another lover, Damen might have been tempted to keep going, teasing the line between enough and too much, but Laurent was not nearly ready for that. Damen released him, folding both arms around his body instead, and held him until the trembling stopped.

Except it didn’t—because Laurent was laughing, he realized after a moment, laughing and scattering kisses over Damen’s skin. Surprised, Damen pulled back to see his face.

“I did it,” Laurent whispered, leaning his forehead against Damen’s, “we did it, and we’re alive, we’re both alive, here, together.” His eyes were bright with tears, but the effervescent laughter continued, making him look startlingly young, unshadowed, unscarred.

“We are,” Damen agreed, smiling so wide his face hurt and curling his fingers against Laurent’s cheek.

“Now get flat on your back as if you were a man who valued your life,” Laurent said, aiming for a briskness he did not quite achieve, and shoved Damen’s shoulder to roll him back. “I’m getting a towel for this mess.”

Damen laughed under his breath and made no protest. The way Laurent’s knees wobbled as he crossed the room was enough of a victory for today.


End file.
